


On My Skin, In My Heart

by Kami_no_Namida



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: (Author can't think them up now), Alternate Universe - Age Changes, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Book and Movie Aspects Combination, Cultural Differences, Eventual Durincest (warning you beforehand), Eventual Incest (double warning), Eventual mpreg, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-03-03 09:10:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2845664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kami_no_Namida/pseuds/Kami_no_Namida
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Each race calls their destined one (or ones) differently. They have different ways to find the other part of their soul also.</p><p>The Hobbits, for example, are born with the name of their so-called Heart written on their skin.</p><p>However that can prove to be more of a problem than a blessing, for there are customs every Hobbit has to keep to, traditions one must not break. And if you never see your own mark... never hear it read out loud... you might just forget about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Out of Sight, Out of Mind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TastesLikeCream](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TastesLikeCream/gifts).



> I dedicate this work to you, because not only I simply admire your skill in writing, but you're an awesome person also. Merry Christmas <3
> 
> This fic started as a writing streak which appeared as my way to get me out of BOFA depression... As of now I still deny something called Battle of the Five Armies even happened. (even so, it is my first Hobbit fic, yay!)
> 
> (rating is bound to change as I go (ovo))
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own any of the material on which this plot is built, aside from maybe a few details. All those rights go to J.R.R.Tolkien, Peter Jackson and all the people who had any major or minor part in the making of the book and movies.

All of Arda is the home to quite a few races… Men, Elves, Dwarves, Hobbits…

All of these races vary greatly… in height, in language, in culture, in traditions…

In certain aspects few of them overlap. In some neither do… Yet there is at least one trait which they all have in common.

None of them are ever born with their soul complete, all born with only a part of it.

Most with a half of a soul, some with less than that even, meant to find their happiness with more than one person, but those are few and far between only.

However it may be, there is always at least one other being that is meant for each member of each race. The one or more Soulmates with whom the fraction of a soul an individual holds shall form a perfect whole.

Each race calls their destined one (or ones) differently. They have different ways to find the other part of their soul also.

Those who belong to the race of Men feel a want to move, an insistent tug of an invisible string which is connecting them and shall lead them to their Mate, if they just follow it.

Elves hear the voice of their Chosen in their dreams. Whispering, laughing, singing… in the long lives Elves live, they are often able to recognise their Chosen from as little as a gasp when they finally encounter them.

The Dwarves, being the race of crafters, once in a lifetime feel an insistent need to create something. Something which somehow represents their One and as the Call orders, the creation bears the One’s name or at least a part of it… the name of the one who is meant to own it.

It does not matter if a Dwarf or a Dwarrowdam is a silversmith, blacksmith or a miner. If their One calls a craft different from theirs their own then once the Call comes each member of the Khazâd will in a trance-like state create an item which represents their One the most.

The Hobbits have the easiest way to find the other part of their soul, it could seem. For the little folk are the ones who are born with the name of their Heart written on their skin.

Inked into it, it might seem even… however as it stands that could turn into more of a problem than the way of any of the other races could.

Because by the Hobbit standards, you could only show your Heartmark to your closest family, or the one the Heartmark speaks of. It is in fact as a general rule not even _spoken about_ much outside of the family circle.

The thing is that despite Heartmark being a _Heart_ mark, the area where the mark can appear varies greatly.

Some Hobbits have the name of their Heart written on their arm and took to covering it with sleeves when in public to guard the name on their skin from preying eyes of gossipers.

Some have the name written on their necks and took to wearing high collars or scarves.

Some have the name written on their chests, their everyday clothes being enough to hide those.

Some, like one Bilbo Baggins for example, have their mark written on their backs. It was easy to hide such a mark. However in Bilbo’s case the name of his Heart was inked down his spine… a place he could not in all goodwill reach with just his eyes however much he wanted to.

And that was the core of the problem.

* * *

When Bilbo Baggins was born, there was a big commotion across all Shire.

After all, he was the much awaited child of the Master of Bag End Bungo Baggins and his once-wayward wife, the “Disturber of peace”, Belladonna Baggins, born Took.

Everyone was expecting what a child of such unlikely a couple turns out to be like... the gossipers would delight in knowledge that they might have been a tiny bit right.

Little Bilbo seemed a perfectly ordinary fauntling at first.

Ten little fingers… Ten tiny toes… A healthy set of lungs that he put to use as soon as he had the chance.

And yet there truly was something unusual about him.

His Heartmark.

The place was not that weird a placement for the mark, no. Bungo himself had his wife’s name written across the back of his ribcage in her curvy script.

It was the fact that neither of the parents could read the name of the one meant to complete their little son’s soul.

Because as luck would have it, the Heartmark on Bilbo’s spine was not written in Westron.

It was written in runes.

* * *

“What are we going to do?” Belladonna asked tiredly, looking at her husband, her newborn son sleeping in her arms.

“I don’t know.” Bungo admitted sadly, rubbing her wife’s shoulder, where he knew his own name was written. “What language is this even?”

“Runes. Dwarves use such runes, I think. I am not sure. I can't think clearly now.” Belladonna sighed. “We could write them down. Ask someone, _anyone_ , but…”

Bungo did not need her to continue. He knew what she was going to say anyway…

That they could not in fact write the name down without it backfiring on Bilbo horribly.

It was said to bring bad luck on a child, if the name of their Heart was written down for others to see. It was all but _prohibited_.

Being the son of the parents he was was going to be enough of a problem for Bilbo later on in his life.

Never mind if a word spread that not only was Belladonna going around with a Heartmark of her son _written down_ …There was no saying what the Shirefolk would do if they actually got to know that little Bilbo’s Heart was as likely as anything a _Dwarf_.

An occurrence none of the living remembered and none of the chronicles spoke about.

“He’s too small to worry about that for the time being anyway. Let’s not worry about future now.” Bungo said in the end. “You should be resting now.”

And being as tired as she was, Bellladonna agreed.

* * *

Whatever the Baggins couple could have planned, as it turned out the matter of Bilbo’s Heartmark was never settled.

Belladonna and Bungo could not tell their son what the runes on his spine meant and Bilbo could never see them for himself. And however important the issue of finding his Heart could be for him, little Bilbo did not press it.

He knew that as likely as anything his parents would get around to explaining why they never spoke about it. Until then the question of what was the problem with his Heartmark would have to wait.

Bungo and Belladonna would have told him.

Later.

Once they thought him old enough to truly _understand_ just how grave a misfortune his Heartmark could be to him...

But then the Fell Winter came.

Bilbo was just a tween when the winter caught the rolling green hills the Shire consists of into its clutches, refusing to give way to spring.

There was not enough food to last through a winter that long, especially as the only trading roads, the means of getting more food from the outside, were buried under the snow, just like Shire itself was.

As if that was not enough the river Baranduin froze over and wolves attacked the Shire.

The peaceful folk was not equipped to deal with such a threat.

Despite the help that came in the form Gandalf and the Rangers of the North, many died during that winter and many more were hurt or otherwise marked by the long months of suffering.

Bungo Baggins was one of those.

Weakened by the cold the Master of the Bag End fell gravely ill and however much he held on it was simply not enough.

Bungo Baggins returned to Yavanna's Gardens few months after the Winter had passed and with him went the happy times in Bag End.

Belladonna became just a shadow of the woman she had been, her grief weighing heavily on her. She lasted way too long a time for someone whose Heart died. Those who were not otherwise tied to this world did not last a day even.

Belladonna held on for her son’s sake… but in the end she just could not go on any longer. Not when there was no Bungo next to her.

She joined her Heart in death less than a year later.

And Bilbo stayed alone.

At first pushed from one relative to another as a hot potato, then left to manage on his own once his Coming of age came… It was no wonder Bilbo forgot that there was some happiness meant for him in this world.

He in time forgot his father’s voice. Even the hums of approval he proudly received whenever he did something right.

He forgot the sound of his mother’s voice. The one that scolded him for his dirty clothes, but asked him about his little adventure later in the day.

Bilbo in time forgot the feeling of his parents’ fingers tracing the shape of the runes on his back.

He in fact forgot about them as a whole.

However not everything is meant to last forever and the long forgotten memories might yet be brought onto the surface, they might just need a bit of a push...

"Good Morning!"

A truly tiny one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have read a few fics with this theme already, if the similarities seem to be too much at times, I sincerely apologise, it was not my intention (._.)'


	2. Never Forgave, Never Forgot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At times the Call came later, when the One for a Dwarf was much younger than them being the most frequent cause. But what with the two massive losses of people in half a century… many whispered that for some Dwarves, the Call may not come at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how this chapter ended up so long. I wasn't even _planning_ on writing a whole one about Thorin's side of "up till present"! (o_o)
> 
> Anyway... I spent quite a few hours researching Dwarven aging process and came to conclusion that Thorin truly would not have looked the way he did in the movies when Smaug came. He'd look 11/12 Men-age-wise. _(no *cough*hot*cough* Richard Armitage yet, sorry :p)_
> 
> I would be able to dig into this deeper BUT I won't. (If only to not bore you.) Just remember that I'm building the plot on that concept. (Along with Balin being the oldest of the Company, as he is in the movie, not Thorin as is the fact in the book)
> 
> I'll slowly ease you into the differences as the story goes, so hopefully you won't be confused. (^^')

When Thorin, son of Thráin was born, the Dwarven kingdom called Erebor, the Lonely Mountain, had many a reason to rejoice.

After all, Thorin was the firstborn son of prince Thráin, son of Thrór, King under the Mountain.

The kingdom was at the peak of its prosperity at that time.

Gold, silver and valuable gems flowing from its mines, the craft of its dwellers praised and revered by all those who came upon it…

Adding to that a new child being born into the line of Durin, one of the Seven Fathers of the Dwarves?

They were doing something right, the Dwarves thought and whispered among themselves. ‘We are blessed by Mahal, as a reward for our hard work.’

And it got better, for the first son was followed by another in _five_ years only.

The joy of the Durin’s folk was bordering on _ecstasy_ … that state however only came to be another few years down the line, when the line of Durin was blessed by a _daughter_.

There was nothing that could mar the perfect times which surely lay ahead, right?

By then, Thorin was fourteen years old. Still just a child, by Dwarven standards, the problems of the adults were still too heavy for him to be burdened with.

He was too young still to notice the worries that were hiding behind his parents’ smiles.

He didn’t notice that his grandfather spent more time with gold than with his family. He was just content to have the man’s attention when it was offered.

Soon it however could not escape _no_ _one’s_ notice that Thrór’s visits to the treasury were getting longer and longer… that he kept on gathering more and more gold, not for the good of his people, but for his own pleasure.

The rulers of neighbouring realms, among many others, warned the Dwarven king that such a hoard - one that kept on getting bigger and bigger as the years went - was bound to attract attention…

However Thrór was deaf to their advices. Blind to the threat. Blinded by the shine of Arkenstone which he valued above everything else.

He refused to see what soon everyone who dared was pointing out to him. That there were dangers lurking in the shadows. That the only thing the golden hoard did was drawing the attention of those beings on the Mountain.

It was soon after Thorin celebrated his twenty-fourth birthday that what was bound to happen _happened_.

For it was that same year that one of the Dragons of the North came to lay claim on the mountain’s famed treasures.

That same year came a Fire-drake known as Smaug.

* * *

Fire. Fire. _Death_.

Many lost their lives that fateful day.

Some were burned by the fire. Some were crushed by the stone which came falling on them as Smaug wrought havoc on the Lonely Mountain… and yet that hadn’t been the end of it.

For many more yet lost their lives only _after_ that day. Some succumbing to their wounds on the road. Some never even having had the luck to get out of the mountain in the first place. They died waiting for help that could never come.

Pain. Pain. _Death_.

The Dwarves had been helpless against the dragon that day, they could have done nothing but flee.

No kingdom. No mountain. _No_ _home._

What remained was the grief of those who survived.

* * *

Once they knew they could not return to the mountain any longer, the Erebor’s survivors were put in front of many a choice.

Where were they supposed to go? What were they to do next?

Aside from individuals who split off the group completely there were two main directions.

Many of the survivors headed east, for they had decided to relocate to Iron Hills, another kingdom of Dwarves, one founded by their king’s younger brother, Grór.

There were however also those who went west, for they had decided to follow King Thrór and the rest of the royal family, of which all survived the attack of Smaug. Those were the Dwarves who spent long years in wandering and eventually settled in the hills of Dunland, where they lived to the best of their abilities.

It was not the rich life some of them may have been used to from Lonely Mountain, not really, but at the same time it was not the worst fate they could have ended with either. After all, even without the mountain the craft of the Dwarves was renowned throughout all of Arda.

But for some it was not enough… and it was that dissatisfaction that had led to a horrible,  _ruthless_  battle that had written itself into the history with the blood of the fallen.

A battle where even the Dwarven label "victory" was a label only, and it was not even celebrated as such, the number of casualties too high.

A battle that no Dwarf would ever be able to forget, much like the day Smaug came.

The Battle of Azanulbizar.

* * *

Thorin could hear the silence which was stretching all around him, the battle having ended already. It was a heavy silence. Filled with pain. Filled with grief… Yet it was the furthest thing from Thorin’s mind at that time.

For it was the moment the battle had ended that he could look around himself and _see_. See the carnage that surrounded him. One that he would always remember. One that would haunt his sleep for a long time.

He would _remember_.

Remember everything that happened. Most of all looking around the battlefield… Searching… _Searching…_ Seeing those who survived…

‘ _Dwalin_. _Balin_.’

And those that did not.

‘ _Frerin_ …’

 “Thorin!” Dwalin’s voice rang through the silence which surrounded the whole battlefield still. However for Thorin, who fell to his knees next to his brother’s body it couldn’t have sounded more distant.

‘Frerin…’

“Your Majesty!” more voices, trying to catch his attention.

‘Frerin…’

Thorin could not believe it. Was it truly his brother that lay motionless before him? The body that was nearly cleaved in half. How could it be?

‘My dear, _dear_ brother.’

Only few years ago had his brother passed his fortieth year and became _Matured_. _Adult_ though… he was not.

He had not passed seventy-five years of age. He _was not._ And he would never be.

‘ _Frerin_!’

Thorin wept for his brother.

For who he would have become, were he given the chance.

For the Call his brother would never be able to hear, it usually coming sometime between Maturity and Adulthood.

‘What would you have made? Whom for?’

Thorin wept bitter tears and by the time he all but collapsed over his brother’s body, his shield-brothers wept their silent tears along with him.

‘Why did it have to be you?’

* * *

Thorin never forgot the weight of the post-battle silence even long, _long_ years after the experience was over. He saw it as a burden for just him to have, never to be shared, one that he thought he deserved to have pressing on his shoulders…

The discernible evidence of the guilt he carried for not being able to protect his brother.

And time passed.

Days, weeks, months, _years_ …

It was more than two decades later that Thorin became an _Adult_ … and he cared not one bit.

Not for the age and certainly not for the Dwarves he heard whisper around and about him, the Prince-in-Exile… The Prince who had not heard the Call.

It was not completely unheard of, not to hear the Call by the seventy-fifth year of age.

At times the Call came later, when the One for a Dwarf was much younger than them being the most frequent cause. But what with the two massive losses of people in half a century… many whispered that for some Dwarves, the Call may not come at all.

And Thorin did not care still.

He saw it a fitting punishment. Not having his own One, for being the cause of Frerin not having his.

He accepted it.

And time passed still.

Months, years, _decades_ …

And one day the remnants of Durin’s folk could see their by-then king walking around their settlement in Blue Mountains with a blank look to his eyes that all of the Dwarves recognised.

Their king was finally hearing the Call!

* * *

“A… book?”

If Dwalin looked any closer to laughing, Thorin swore he would kill him! Even his Immature nephews had more tact than that.

‘At least they excused themselves before bursting out laughing behind the door.’

“How astute an observation.” Thorin growled at his shield-brother. “Yes, it’s a book.”

“And what a book it is!” Dís spoke up next to him, her palm caressing the cover of the leather-bound book, which was the source of her brother’s current sour expression.

Then her eyes landed on the gold inlay on the book’s front, which she had been tracing with her fingers. “Is this a tree?”

“Yes, it is. An _oak_ … and if the shape of it would not clue you in…” Thorin trailed off then opened the book on a random page. “Then _this_ could be enough of a hint.”

Dís looked at the little picture in the lower outer corners of the pages which Thorin pointed out, then turned a few pages to see that there were the same ones on each one every one of them.

“Acorns…” she whispered, listing through the pages. Then her eyes fell on the first picture in the book. The only one in it that took up a whole page.

“Never thought you to be an artist, brother.” she teased, but as she handed the book back she smiled. “It is a great gift, a lot of work put into it… now you only need to find who is meant to own it.”

“Easier said than done.” Thorin grumbled and squashed down the urge to look into the book. After all, he knew it cover to cover.

By heart he knew the picture Dís had paused on, the one that took the most time and held the closest thing to a clue of his One’s identity that could be found in the book…

There, beneath the image of a blazing fireplace, were two letters written in curvy script, which Thorin would otherwise be unable to produce, he knew.

Beneath the hearth were written the initials: BB.

* * *

It was clear to Thorin that his one was not a Dwarf.

For even if the book in itself could be pointing to a Dwarven scribe, or someone who just enjoyed books, really, it was highly unlikely. The initials were quite enough of a proof of that.

Because first, there were _two_ initials. Epithets were not _that_ common among Dwarves, even if he himself had one and if it was meant for his One’s father, there would most likely be an indication to that, he had seen it before.

Second was the fact that the initials were not written in Dwarven runes, but in letters which Westron used.

But how should he go about finding someone as ambiguous, as _indistinct_ as that?

Thorin did not know.

And were he to be completely sincere, it was scaring him in a way… He did not expect to hear the Call. He did not think he _deserved_ to hear it… Why did Mahal gift him with a One of his own?

Thorin continued to ponder over that fact for a long time. Years and years he looked and searched for at least a hint of his One. The worst was that he could not search openly, who knows what some Dwarves – or Elves – would do were they to find out who the Durin folk’s king’s One was before the king in question?

After a time Thorin had to stop his search, there were more urgent matters at hand. He would start searching for his One again later…

“Thorin, you can wait no longer. You are the heir to the throne of Durin.”

…once he had a kingdom to offer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suppose at least a few of you recognised part of the wording I used on Thorin's impression of Azanulbizar... uhm yeah... guess who watched the Hobbit Trailers about million times before the movie came? (and the same after the movie, really.. I love the music chosen... and the scenes chosen... and just (Q_Q))


	3. Why?, How?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But sweet Yavanna, how big was the chance that he would simply forget someone who had _tattoos_ on their head? It was not that common a sight, not in Bree even, and it was not as if he had met many Dwarves in the first place.
> 
> He would certainly remember inviting a Dwarf, tattoos or not, over for a tea, thank you very much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am absolutely **flabbergasted** by the amount of kudos, comments and everything you gift me with, people. You're the best and I hope not to disappoint you.  <3

Dwarf.

A. Dwarf.

There was a _Dwarf_ in front of him and one Bilbo Baggins could not help but stare dumbstruck at the sight… Why was there a Dwarf of all beings standing on his doorstep, bowing slightly as he introduced himself?

“Dwalin, at your service.”

No one could really fault Bilbo for taking it while before he collected himself and replied, could they? After all this was not the neighbour he might have had expected his late visitor to be when the doorbell rang.

“Bilbo… Baggins… at yours.”

Was it just his imagination or did the way the Dwarf’s gaze take on a dose of scrutiny the moment he said his name?

“D-do we know each other?” Bilbo asked, thinking it better than staying silent, for while he could not recall having met this intimidating individual ever before, there had to be a reason for the Dwarf to look at him that way after all… and for him to enter his home to begin with.

But sweet Yavanna, how big was the chance that he would simply forget someone who had _tattoos_ on their head? It was not _that_ common a sight, not in Bree even, and it was not as if he had met many Dwarves in the first place.

He would certainly remember inviting a Dwarf, tattoos or not, over for a tea, thank you very much.

“No.”

‘Lovely fella.’ the Hobbit could not help but think at the Dwarf’s, _Dwalin’s_ curt reply to his question. After all, not only did the Dwarf not elaborate, but he added another size up of his person at the top of that! Bilbo felt vaguely insulted.

And that feeling was only bound to intensify, when the Dwarf in question went striding into his smial as if he owned it.

“Which way, laddie? Is it down here?”

The nerve of that was simply astounding!

* * *

By the time an hour from Dwalin’s arrival passed, Bilbo was very much done with the entirety of the Dwarven race.

They were making fun of him running around in attempts to save priceless antiques and other items, the effort not effective due to the differences in height anyway.

Bilbo also found that among other things it was also no use pleading and shouting at the sturdy bunch, for whatever the volume he used, the Dwarves refused to listen and their booming voices more than covered whatever was said in Bilbo’s much softer one at any rate.

The poor Hobbit could only imagine his parents rolling over in their graves, because as it were there was no way he was able to stop the raucous, unexpected party from overall overtaking Bag End.

Why were there even Dwarves in his home? How _many_ Dwarves were there even? Ten? Twelve? A _legion_?

Eating everything edible they encountered, including his _perfect_ prize tomatoes… and the complete contents of his larder with them… Emitting sounds which belonged to a pub rather than a respectable gentlehobbit’s home… Bilbo loved company and all around cheer as much as the next Hobbit, but what was too much was simply _too_ **_much_** _!_

There was a limit to how much a simple Hobbit could take.

“Bebother and confusticate these Dwarves!” he muttered to himself after he saved his crochet from a miserable end.

He did not even notice at first that the source of the madness that became his home was advancing closer.

“My dear Bilbo, what on earth is the matter?”

‘You have the nerve to ask?’ Bilbo stared at the wizard in astonishment. Rather than voicing that thought he however said something a  _tiny_  bit different, he still had manners, unlike some. “What's the matter?! I am surrounded by Dwarves. What are they doing here?”

“Oh, they're quite a merry gathering… Once you get used to them.”

“I don't want to get used to them!” Bilbo nearly shouted at the wizard and had all the intention to point out just how much he did _not_ want to get used to the Dwarves. However as his eyes slid to the - _overly_ \- merry gathering a memory flashed in front of his eyes, appearing all of sudden. One that had him as a little faunt, going on an adventure which consisted of running after Dwarves rather than Elves.

Why was his yearning to meet a Dwarf so strong back then? Why had it hurt him so bad when, once he _did_ find one, they refused to talk to him?

 _Why_?

Bilbo could not remember… and soon, as he saw one of the Dwarves approach, the memory vanished from the forefront of his mind and back into its depths once again… And he thought of the strange remembrance no more.

“Excuse me. I’m sorry to interrupt, but what should I do with my plate?”

* * *

‘Mahal, _how?_ How can a place that’s so flat be so hard to navigate through?’

Obviously for some, it could be.

Be it as it may Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, King Under the Mountain… was lost.

It was an unfortunate condition of the leader of the Durin’s folk that is the absolute lack of ability to navigate anywhere that was not a mountain or at least underground. And the Dwarf was not happy about that in the least.

He _needed_ to get to the meeting spot they had agreed on with the Dwarves who had agreed to come with him and the wizard. He needed to see just who their supposed burglar was to be.

Thorin was in fact desperate enough that he even considered asking someone for directions… only there was no one to ask.

The few Halflings he had met had all but ran as soon as they saw him, with an exception of a few curious young ones who were dragged back into the strange hole-like homes by their parents, much to their great dislike. Dwarf was not a common sight around these parts, apparently.

‘It’s so quiet.’ Thorin could not help but think to himself as he walked through – now deserted – village that he knew Gandalf had called “Hobbiton”.

As if on cue Thorin realized that it became _not_ quiet all of sudden. He could hear voices. Singing something… much like the songs he knew his kin to break out into. And while he could not recognise the words of the song or even the voices singing it, he decided that going after the sound was the best option he had at that moment.

And as he reached the source of the sound, he knew that he had been right, the round green door he ended up in front of had the thief’s mark on them.

Apparently he was also very lucky for it was more or less as soon as he reached the door that the song ended, followed by laughter of the involved.

_“That’s what Bilbo Baggins hates!”_

‘Bilbo… Baggins?’ Thorin’s hand, which he had raised, stilled for a moment. It couldn’t be, could it?

‘Only a weird coincidence, surely.’ he concluded and finally knocked.

The laughter stopped and nothing but silence could be heard from the other side of the door for a moment.

And then it opened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit shorter than the previous chapter, sorry.  
> I never realized how hard it is to write around the most well-known parts of the book/movie without making it seem like I'm only copying... but hopefully I managed to avoid outright plagiarism, even if I did use a few phrases.. (o_o)
> 
> I can't say when the next chapter will come as I'm still in the middle of exam period...hopefully by the end of the month.


	4. Sour Grapes Philosophy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How dare the Dwarf utter the word “Hobbit” as if it was an insult? The smooth glide of the Dwarf’s voice against his whole being Bilbo willed out of his mind immediately. He only berated at himself that he should have _known_. It would not be possible for someone who was outwardly near to flawless to _not_ have any flaws inwards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You people are amazing!! This story now has **well over 300 kudos**! That's like... over a hundred for each chapter that I had written before this one, and I had never dared to hope for such support. THANK YOU! ♥
> 
>  
> 
> Note:  
>  _Shazara!_ = Silence!

Bilbo counted himself lucky that he had managed to get to the hall of the house.

He was sure that were he to gather himself from the shock of seeing all his crockery piled on the table – washed _and_ undamaged – after what the Dwarves had been doing with it, he for sure would have problems to squeeze through the mass of Dwarven bodies which took to occupying the entrances surrounding said hall immediately.

As it ended up, Bilbo had a grand view on the entrance door when the – presumptuous – wizard swung the door to _his_ smial open.

Later he would maybe be thankful for the small mercy. Who knew how the Dwarf would have reacted to a face he did not recognise opening the door.

Who knew if the only Hobbit in the smial would be able to keep standing, were he the one to open them.

* * *

When Bilbo looked at the Dwarf who was the last to join in on the unexpected party – which he had unfortunately found himself to be a host of - the first thing that caught his notice was the Dwarf’s bearing. The way the Dwarf held himself all but _screamed_ important, as surely as if the Dwarf had tattooed the word on his forehead.

‘Or atop his head.’

Bilbo couldn’t put the tattoos of the one who had started the Dwarven avalanche out of his head. What use were tattoos that most folk couldn’t even see from their height? Bilbo was sure he would probably miss them if not for the way Dwalin had introduced himself.

‘Bebother and confusticate all of these Dwarves, truly.’

And did the Dwarf who just arrived say that he got lost in Hobbiton? How could anyone get lost in _Hobbiton_ of all places?

‘ _Twice?!’_

Regal the Dwarf possibly was, but sense of direction he had even less than would fit behind a fingernail, it would seem.

Be it as it may, Bilbo was quite captivated with the Dwarf whose beard was not as long as the ones some of the other Dwarves sported, nor was it intricately braided.

Then of course there were the Dwarf’s eyes… Quite a sight to behold that they were… And were Bilbo to pinpoint the most striking feature of the individual who had just entered his house, he would have a hard time choosing, but as likely as anything he’d have chosen those eyes, their colour much like the pale Forget-me-nots his mother loved.

It could be easily said that Bilbo Baggins, Master of Bag End was smitten.

He did not even listen much to whatever Gandalf had said about putting some _mark_ on his door, only idly thinking back to when he painted said door only days ago.

‘Trust wizards to ruin one's work.’

If he was to be truthful, however, at that moment Bilbo did not much care for the mark. Nor for its meaning. He only kept on looking at the Dwarf who had been the last to come…

And in that action he’d have continued, quite likely. However then came the moment the Dwarf – whose name Bilbo _might_ have missed – opened his mouth to say something in Bilbo’s general direction.

“So, this is the Hobbit.”

Said _Hobbit_ was not impressed.

How dare the Dwarf utter the word “Hobbit” as if it was an insult? The smooth glide of the Dwarf’s voice against his whole being Bilbo willed out of his mind immediately. He only berated at himself that he should have _known_. It would not be possible for someone who was outwardly near to flawless to _not_ have any flaws inwards.

In fact he had a major one.

‘A grand observation Master Oakenshield, for your great wit you win my heartfelt dislike.’ the Hobbit thought to himself… Which of course was the time the Dwarf - who Gandalf had introduced as the leader of the company of pantry-pillaging invaders - chose to prowl around Bilbo like a wolf would around a lamb separated from its flock…

Or a _skinned_ lamb… More likely the skinned one.

One that could not even run from the predator, however futile the attempt would be.

It was making Bilbo uncomfortable, in all sincerity. And as a result he started to think up all manner of flaws the Dwarf _of course_ had to have, along with the obvious zero capability at decency.

“… Have you done much fighting?”

It was thanks to that that Bilbo very nearly missed that the Dwarf continued speaking… that the Dwarf was addressing _him_ , not just speaking _at_ him in general for the first time since his arrival.

“Pardon me?”

“Axe or sword? What’s your weapon of choice?”

By then Bilbo the mental list of the Dwarf’s flaws grew pretty long.

The fact that he was applying the sour grapes philosophy – not _wanting_ to like the Dwarf, for it could only lead to disaster – Bilbo purposefully chose to ignore… Though as the matters stood – having done the same every time he became even a _bit_ interested in anyone – Bilbo as likely as anything did not realize doing so himself.

“Well, I have some skill at _Conkers_ , if you must know,” it was only at that moment, as the Dwarf ceased circling of his person and actually _stood_ before him that Bilbo realised just how much _taller_ the leader was. “But I fail to see… why that’s relevant.”

“Thought as much.”

Bilbo guessed that a scathing remark would come moments before one was said.

‘No… No. No. _No!_ Don’t look back at them. If you look back at them that means you want their attention on what you say and given what was said already it will be even _worse_ than before, so don’t you dare…’

“He looks more like a grocer than a burglar.”

And to add to the insult _and_ with a smirk in the Hobbit’s direction the Dwarf. Just. _Left!_

‘Impotent…’ Bilbo decided to add onto his mental list – _on the very top of it, in fact_ – as he looked blankly after the Dwarven leader and the group who followed said leader back to the table.

‘He’s _definitely_ impotent.’

* * *

Thorin.

That was the Dwarf’s name.

One of the first things Bilbo noticed about the Dwarves – and one he thought the oddest, truly – was that they used no such a thing as surnames.

Meaning they called each other by first names only.

Meaning _Thorin_ was that rude Dwarf’s name… Well… At least Bilbo hoped it was.

‘Wasn’t what Gandalf said longer though?’ Bilbo wondered, as he watched the Dwarven company talk. And from what he gathered, there was much for them to talk about, and most of the news not good.

And what were they saying about a quest? Was _that_ what the barmy Istar was speaking about when he asked him to “join in on an adventure”?

‘Gandalf, you smoked too much Old Toby again, didn’t you?’

Of course that was the time Gandalf asked him to bring the light.

‘Reduced to a delivery boy in my own house. How… lovely.’

Needless to say that Bilbo brought the candles anyway.

In the time it took him to bring them, a map appeared on the table – courtesy of Gandalf, he guessed. And being the devoted lover of maps he was, Bilbo could not help but take a peek at it, his eyes immediately going to the term which was written on it in the boldest ink, its great significance apparent.

“The Lonely Mountain.”

‘Isn’t that on the other side of the Arda’s map? And… is that a _dragon_ drawn above the thing?’

“When the birds of yore return to Erebor, the reign of the beast will end.”

Bilbo was afraid to ask about that _beast_ almost.

He was afraid, because there was something, _something_ that beckoned him to join the Dwarves on their quest. A gut feeling. The sight of the Dwarven determination.

Or maybe a long forgotten memory?

‘But why a _dragon_ of all things?’

In the time Bilbo got lost in his thoughts, the discussion of the “chiefest and greatest calamity of the age” and what to do with it grew quite heated. Even Gandalf seemed to be dragged into the conversation, and wasn’t it a sight to behold, for the wizard to be at loss for words?

Be it as may, soon the leader of the wild gathering decided that he would not stand for their exclamations being thrown one over the other any longer.

“ _Shazara!_ ”

‘What is he saying?’ Bilbo could not help but wonder. He’d never heard such a word before. Was it said in the secret Dwarven language?

As the gathering went quiet at it and listened to their leader’s speech, Bilbo found himself not caring – for the time being at least, he was a studious Hobbit, thank you very much.

Because in _that_ very moment, however, a different question niggled in his mind.

‘Just _who_ is this Dwarf?’

In the following minutes, when the topic turned back to the Dragon however, and to what his role in the quest would be – and the gratifying conversation about funeral arrangements – Bilbo’s thought strayed from even that.

When he would speak of that moment later on in his life, he would jokingly say that at that then and there he had realised that he had not greeted the floor from the proper – very close – distance that day yet.

The moment the Dwarf with a silly hat spoke of the _incineration_ in _great_ detail – pile of ash, truly? - just gave him the right opportunity.

“Hmmm. Nope.”

* * *

‘Soft.’

Thorin could not help but think, as he looked at the unconscious form of their would-be burglar, watched over by Gandalf.

‘How can someone so soft be of any use? Fainting at mere _mention_ of dragon’s fire… How can someone like that be expected to _steal_ from one? I _did_ say to the wizard that I won’t be responsible for his safety.’

When the Hobbit woke up, he looked at the grey-clad Istar whom he – from what Thorin understood – was acquainted with. Said man only pressed a mug into the Hobbit’s hand… and then they spoke.

Thorin could see the uncertainty in those eyes. He could see the half-smile the Hobbit offered the wizard after he looked at one of the portraits on the walls. There must have been a reference made to the person on it.

Walking a bit closer to the two – though maybe saying further from the rest of the loud Company would be more accurate a description – Thorin could hear some of what was said even.

“Can you promise that I will come back?”

‘Not one of us can be promised that.’ the Dwarf thought bitterly. And from the expression on the wizard’s face he could guess that the Istar said the same.

“Sorry, Gandalf, I can’t sign this. You’ve got the wrong Hobbit.”

With that Bilbo Baggins left.

‘Surely this is not the one Mahal chose for me?’

“It appears we have lost our burglar.” commented Balin as he advanced closer to Thorin, seeing the Hobbit’s retreating back.

“Probably for the best.” why did it sound as if what the older Dwarf said had more meanings than only the words he used? “The odds were always against us. After all, what are we? Merchants, miners, tinkers, toy-makers… Hardly Dwarves legends are written about.”

“There are a few warriors amongst us.”

“Old warriors.” Balin smiled sadly. His friend never looked older to Thorin then when he had said those words. And yet the King-in-Exile was not convinced to leave the quest be. Even with the numbers small, there still was hope.

“I will take each and every one of these Dwarves over an army from the Iron Hills…”

‘However good it would be to have one…’ he added to himself.

“For when I called upon them, they came. Loyalty. Honour. A willing heart. I can ask no more than that.”

And Thorin was nothing if not sincere when he said that.

‘And maybe, _maybe_ Balin is right and it _is_ for the best that _he_ won’t come… he would only be confusing me.’

Bilbo.

Baggins.

‘Yet how big are the odds?’

 _Bilbo_.

_Baggins._

‘Once this is over, once the Mountain is back in the hands of the Durin’s folk, where it belongs… I will search for the being Mahal meant for me.’

 **_B_ ** _ilbo._

 **_B_ ** _aggins._

‘But surely such a fussy, comfortable, swooning-like-a-maiden creature is not meant to be my One?’

* * *

 _“Far over the misty mountains cold_  
_To dungeons deep and caverns old_  
_We must away ere break of day  
_ _To find our long-forgotten gold_

 _The pines were roaring on the height_  
_The winds were moaning in the night_  
_The fire was red, it flaming spread_  
_The trees like torches blazed with light”_

* * *

When Bilbo woke up, he was alone in the house.

He somehow knew that… even when he had yet to walk out of his room.

Why did he feel so bad about not going? Why? Surely surviving to see another day was better than _incineration_?

‘Of course it is.’ the Hobbit thought to himself as he entered the hall, which was well and truly devoid of any sound… as it was of the cloaks and weapons and the travelling bags that had been piled just behind his door the previous day.

Why did the smial which he had accepted being alone in ever since his Coming of age… Why did it suddenly feel so empty?

Why was that sorrowful song, the one which the Dwarves sang the previous night… Why was it echoing throughout his whole being?

Walking into his kitchen, Bilbo found no answer.

Instead he found a contract… the one he had been so torn over the day before. A contract which lay almost innocently on his kitchen table, rolled over from the start to its end… where his signature was supposed to go.

_An agreement to the Contract is irreversible and by signing it the Burglar agrees  to be bound to the Company of Thorin II Oakenshield, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, King Under the Mountain from that moment henceforth._

_The Adventure is to be undertaken entirely at Burglar’s own risk._

_Signed: Thorin, son of Thráin_

_Witnessed: Balin, son of Fundin_

_Burglar:_

Why did it not surprise Bilbo that the Dwarf he had spoken to just the evening before was of royal blood?

Why did the name make the very core of his being all but _scream_ to sign the damn paper?

Why was he…

Why was he running around his smial packing. . . ?

The correct question should be: “Why would he be doing anything different?”

Running around, packing whatever he ever remembered to have taken on any of his own little adventures… What his mother had told him to have taken on hers… 

‘Oh, a handkerchief.’ Bilbo looked at the piece of fabric which had been sticking from under his pillow, before he pocketed it.

‘Might come in handy.’

* * *

“Hey! Mister Bilbo! Where are you off to?”

“Can’t stop, I’m already late!”

“Late for what?”

“I’m going on an adventure!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you like the chapter! \\(0v0)/
> 
> A side thought, I was thinking of maybe making the possibility of Mpreg (and Fpreg for that matter) a common thing, tied to the Soulmateship. . . Thoughts?


	5. Useless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was not that Bilbo longed to spend hours in the night awake, but the fact that he was forbidden from helping by the King-in-Exile who had claimed he’d “rather not be killed in his sleep, if he could help it”… well, that just about shot down Bilbo’s remaining sense of self-worth and buried it under the Misty Mountains.
> 
> He felt exactly the way the very leader of the Company apparently wanted him to… _useless_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm SO VERY SORRY for the lateness of this chapter! The exam period is just behind the door though and due to that I can't guess when the next chapter comes, hopefully June-ish. Sorry!  
>  
> 
> Note:  
>  _"Italics"_ = Khuzdul (at least the long passages of it)

“Welcome, Master Baggins, to the Company of Thorin Oakenshield.”

‘Couldn’t you have found something wrong with the contract, Balin?’ aforementioned Thorin Oakenshield thought to himself, as he saw the latest addition to his company be hoisted up onto a pony by his overeager nephews, said nephews laughing over the Halfling’s stunned surprise.

The sight would maybe irritate Thorin a bit less if the little man did not proceed to stiffly take the pony’s reins and overall look _very_ unacquainted with riding.

‘Saddled with a burglar who does not even know how to _stay_ in a saddle, never mind actually ride a pony. Great. Just great.’

Instead of voicing that thought loud, however, the King-in-Exile only settled on sending the oldest member of the Company a look which more than told how he felt about having the Halfling an official member of the group.

A group of Dwarves who were as of that moment seemed to be attempting to take each other out by throwing sacks of coins amongst themselves, those who bet against the Halfling coming having to pay the few who believed he would. Thorin even noted that one of the flying pouches went sailing into the Istar’s hand.

As far as the king’s mood went, one could easily describe it as _sour_.

Which – of course – was the moment the only Hobbit of the group sneezed.

It was an instinct more than anything else that had most the Company turning around to the source of the unexpected sound.

And as Thorin looked around he saw their contracted burglar reach into his pocket and pull out a clean, white handkerchief, its colour stark against the dark colouring of the travelling clothes of all the Dwarves, plus Gandalf.

Thorin was not impressed.

‘Too used to having comforts of home, he’d have wanted to return for it, I’m sure.’ Thorin snorted to himself, when the sneezing did not stop for some time, it more likely than anything being a reaction to the ponies.

‘Mahal, surely he is not the One for me?’ the king sent a silent prayer to the higher spheres, even a thought of being tied to the Hobbit seemingly unbearable right that moment. ‘Why would you torture me with someone the likes of…’

 “ _B_ ilbo. _B_ aggins.”

Thorin was grateful for being used to people – mostly Nori – sneaking up on him. He was sure that Dwalin, who must have at some point taken Balin’s place next to him, would have had a field day if Thorin had jumped up in the saddle after being caught unaware.

At the same time, however, the king could only scold himself for having delved too much into his thoughts. Enough that he had not heard his shield-brother approach, until said Dwarf spoke. And the way Dwalin put emphasis at the initial letters of both, the name and the surname of their new Burglar told Thorin exactly what the Dwarf was hinting at.

Well… _that_ and the words which immediately followed.

“ _You’re thinking about the possibility of him being your One, aren’t you?_ ”

It was no surprise to Thorin that Dwalin caught on the thought which plagued Thorin’s mind from as far as the Halfling’s home. After all Dwalin had seen the result of his Call, unlike majority of the Company.

“ _Mahal_ _must have been in a mood for making a joke at my expense if he is._ ” the King-in-Exile all but growled quietly, not wanting anyone to overhear. After all, while the use of Khuzdul prevented the one being spoken about from understanding, the rest of their companions understanding was a different matter entirely.

“ _He’s a **Halfling** , not a Dwarf. He wouldn’t ever fit. It can’t be him. Things like that simply do not happen._”

“ _If he is not, you won’t find any complaints from me._ ” Thorin agreed, nodding to himself as he did so.

He however did not delve into the matter further, knowing what Dwalin’s view of outsiders was. It was why he had never spoken of the possibility to him, even when he had long since suspected that his One might not be one of the Khazâd.

The two rode in silence for a time, the background noise of the Company speaking among themselves more than enough to fill the void… that was until Thorin thought of something.

“ _Do_ _you think the others suspect something?_ ”

“ _Not many know of the result of your Call, cousin, only about it having happened much later than for most. I know that Balin **does** suspect_ _though_.” the bald Dwarf admitted, looking over his shoulder to where his brother seemed to be in conversation with the Company’s healer. “ _As for Fíli and Kíli… I doubt they do. They were just wee lads still, when your Call came, not even close to their Maturity yet. And you haven’t spoken of it frequently since._ ”

“ _And that surprises you? Many an enemy would profit from the knowledge of who my One is. Kill one, kill the other, you know how it goes. Maybe it would be better were I to never find the One, the person whom **that** item is meant to go to._ ”

“ _You yourself don’t believe that, Thorin._ ” a voice that decidedly was _not_ Dwalin spoke up, causing Thorin to sigh. He should have expected for Balin to cut in at some point, really, the older Dwarf must have been listening to at least the latter part of the conversation.

“ _No one in their right mind would **not** want to meet their One and nor would you_.” the white-haired Dwarf said, looking reproachfully at the King-in-Exile.

“ _You’d be surprised._ ” Thorin spat only, spurring his pony on to get to the very front of the group.

‘Not knowing is better than knowing and losing.’ Thorin thought to himself as memories flashed before his eyes… Of burning Erebor, of battlefield, of ground littered with lifeless bodies, of Dwarves and Dwarrowdams fading into nothingness slowly to follow their Ones who had fallen…

“Achoo!”

‘And anything, _anyone_ must surely be better than _him_!’

* * *

Travelling for some days already, it became clear to Bilbo that Gandalf apparently was not a “part of the Company” in the true sense of the phrase.

He travelled with all of them, ate with them, spoke with them, was the loudest of the whole Company in fact, when one did not count the nightly concert of the Dwarven snores. Even with all of that however, the wizard at times simply was _not_ there at all… they would just stop for the night only to realise Gandalf was not around.

Bilbo was pretty sure that were it _him_ who went disappearing at random times, the leader of the Company certainly would not settle for only sending an annoyed look his way.

As a matter of a fact, when Bilbo thought about it some more, he did not even recall seeing Gandalf’s name written in his contract, not even a mention! One would think that having an Istar as a contracted member of the Company would certainly warrant at least the mention in the Burglar’s contract. Or wouldn’t it? Did that mean that Gandalf was tagging along just because he wanted? Was maybe their journey of something _bigger_ than just Dwarves taking back their homeland?

Bilbo did not dare ask.

Gandalf might be an old friend of his family, but that did not mean that it gave Bilbo any right to pry into his business. For all he knew, the wizard could just decide not to speak to him if he did.

And Bilbo only had a few opportunities to talk during the journey, because while the Dwarves spoke amongst themselves merrily at all times, they had not warmed up to Bilbo, yet. A heavy disappointment, he would say, were he asked.

Be it as it may, majority of his conversations were ones with Gandalf and not wanting to spend the whole trek across the map in silence, Bilbo would rather not jeopardise that, for he knew that in the days which were to follow the Dwarves were unlikely to open up to him still.

And some of the members of the Company more than just insinuated what they thought of him.

Bilbo did not need the broody King-in-Exile to help him understand that he had wholly _underestimated_ how difficult this “adventuring business” would be. The days they had spent on the road already spoke of as much.

He could not do half the things the Dwarves could and the most things he _could_ do the Dwarves could do better themselves.

An added insult to it was that he was even stripped of his night-watch duty few days prior.

It was not that Bilbo longed to spend hours in the night awake, but the fact that he was forbidden from helping by the King-in-Exile who had claimed he’d “rather not be killed in his sleep, if he could help it”… well, that just about shot down Bilbo’s remaining sense of self-worth and buried it under the Misty Mountains.

He felt exactly the way the very leader of the Company apparently wanted him to… _useless_.

And somehow he knew that _that_ feeling won’t be going away in the days to come.

* * *

‘So… one of the terrible days, is it?’ Bilbo grumbled to himself as he tightened his cloak around himself.

The rain was falling heavily all day and that made everyone just about _done_ with it.

In the end even the mighty Thorin Oakenshield agreed that continuing on in the weather would be unadvisable and decided that they shall camp in the forest ahead of them, getting back onto the road the following morning.

However as it turned out even camping safely was not something they were allowed to do.

Being at the very end of the line, Bilbo could see it quite clearly.

The moment Kíli’s pony, which rode just before him, got startled by something and how Kíli’s hands got tangled in its reins, not having anticipated the sudden move of his mount.

How Kíli _stayed tied by the reins_ even as the pony bolted right into the river they were driving by.

Bilbo was struck motionless for a split second.

That state was washed off him in lightning-speed, however, as he realised that no one else noticed it happening, the splash of the river masked for most part by the pouring of the rain.

“Kíli!”

Bilbo drove closer to the river, searching it for the signs of the young Dwarf, only secondarily looking back to see that the Dwarven assemblage was returning.

“ _Kíli_!”

It was easy to categorise the voice for Bilbo, it being one of the few that actually spoke _to him_ at times.

One full of worry for his brother.

It was strange somehow that Fíli was the first to be at his side, given that he had been riding a bit ahead with one of the other Dwarves whose name Bilbo could not yet remember.

It was as if he somehow _knew_ that his brother was in danger.

Bilbo put it away in his mind to ask about later.

Because that was the moment he saw Kíli emerge from the water, not far from them, but further than he had been pulled into it.

“There he is!” Bilbo exclaimed as he pointed the place out.

He did even get to finish the sentence really, for it was as soon as he showed the place that a Dwarven body went all but sailing by him as Fíli jumped into the water.

And it was good thing that he did.

In the morning the following day they would get to know that further down the stream sharp stones jutted from the riverbed, only harmless to fish which knew how to swim past them. If Kíli had been dragged any farther…

Not knowing yet however even the actual outcome was not exactly rosy.

Kíli, who was half-drowned, ended up vomiting once he was out of the water. He was also panicked enough to refuse to let go of his brother who had pulled him out, even when Óin wanted to check up on him.

Fíli was not much better looks-wise, but at least he had knowingly jumped into the water and focused on Kíli as he was, he did not even think to show any sign of discomfort, if he was feeling any. He was however checking his brother for injuries over and over, as if he could not remember having gotten the younger Dwarf out of danger, speaking to him quietly, pressing their foreheads together as he rubbed Kíli’s arms to bring him at least a semblance of warmth.

It was easy to see how terrified he was when faced with the fact that he could have _lost_ his brother.

Just like that. Not in a battle even. Not when taking back the homeland they were not even close to, yet.

Just because of an _accident_.

No one spoke after that. Not even mentioning that while Kíli’s pony had been pulled out by Fíli also, everything it carried was lost to river.

The Company only sombrely and mechanically got to the forest they had previously chosen as a spot for the night.

Choosing a remotely dry spot. Breaking the camp. Lighting a fire…

All done in silence.

And Bilbo did not break it either.

Once he set up his own bedroll he went with two of the Dwarves he had yet to remember the name of to gather some wood. Not that he could carry even a half of what the others did, but given it was _Kíli’s and Fíli’s_ turn that day, the others only nodded in acceptance.

After he returned Bombur had already rationed out some dinner and the silence continued.

As he sat down on a log, Bilbo could not help but let his gaze be drawn to the sight of the two Dwarves sitting by the fire, covered by a blanket, soaked to the bone and clinging to each other desperately.

‘Correction.’ Bilbo thought to himself, thinking of his previous assessment of the day.

‘It is one of the _horrendous_ days.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I took what was maybe a paragraph in the book, dramatised it and it became the entire last part... And it's not even the end of it! The fall back will be in the next chapter, whenever THAT comes.
> 
> Also! It seems that majority of you are alright with MPREG so do be prepared that it will appear down the line of the story, I will change the tags appropriately. (^^)
> 
>  
> 
> _Also... err.. thoughts on Dwori? Anyone?? (ovo)_


	6. Doubts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was one thing life had taught Bilbo Baggins of Bag End and that was that life never stays good for a long time.
> 
> You may get ups, you may even get a time of rest… but never, never stop looking out for when it takes a turn for bad once again.
> 
> As far as Bilbo was concerned the river scare was the other shoe finally dropping and that dream was cementing that fact for him.
> 
> However that was not the case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my dear readers, thank you for all your support. I love each and every one of you. ♥
> 
> _ALSO warning you beforehand that the updates will be sporadic, the school has started and as such not much time is at hand. (Sorry (Q_Q))_
> 
> Hope you enjoy anyway~

_“Bilbo.”_

_He remembered that day._

_“What is on your mind, Bilbo?”_

_The way his mother’s skin looked so pale._

_“Why don’t you tell me?”_

_Her body so frail._

_“A blueberry, no, better yet, a **strawberry** scone for your thoughts?”_

_What made him remember that day?_

_“Why don’t we leave, mum?” his younger self, who was in charge in the dream – in the **memory** – asked, sitting by the bed where Belladonna Baggins rested._

_“Why should we, honey?” his mother asked, with not even a pinch of her surprise feigned._

_“Wouldn’t you feel better… elsewhere?” the youngster asked tentatively. He wasn’t stupid and he wasn’t blind either. He saw how much worse his mother was getting from one day to the next. How fast her health was declining._

_“I would feel nowhere better than home, honey.” Belladonna smiled gently, beckoning her son closer._

_When he got within her reaching distance she encircled his palms in hers._

_“I know you miss him too.” she started, the sadness oozing from her voice nearly palpable. “I miss him so badly myself. But don’t think that staying where he did, in the place he created with his own hands, is making it any harder on me. It’s in fact doing the opposite.”_

_Bilbo could not help but be distrustful._

_“Oh don’t frown, my faunt, it is unbecoming of a young man.” Belladonna said with a weak smile, her hands pinching Bilbo’s cheeks._

_He almost did not feel it… **that** feeble the once vibrant Belladonna had gotten by then._

_She must have noticed it too, for she lowered her hands back onto the sheets._

_“Don’t be sad for me, Bilbo. When it happens, it happens. It is **you** I am worried about.”_

_“Mum…”_

_The sob of a word surprised Bilbo as he took in the memory he only rarely thought of._

_He had never really forgotten how hard it had been at the time. Only one reason more not to think of that day too often._

_“Don’t leave me, mum.”_

* * *

Bilbo woke up unsettled.

There was a reason he did not think of those dark days much. The same reason that another memory he did not visit often was of _that_ winter and what followed.

He never really got over either.

It was the reason why the dream weighed so heavily on his mind.

His mother was a strong woman, she had always been.

She outlasted every Hobbit, who was ever to follow their Heart into the afterlife.

Some by weeks.

Most by _months_.

That particular day, was the only day she spoke about her days growing shorter openly to him, or at least as openly as one could expect a parent speak to their child about their approaching death.

It had been only weeks later that she followed his father on the one final journey everyone takes at one point or the other. That she succumbed to the pain and loneliness that came when one’s Heart passed away.

And Bilbo stayed alone.

Why was it this memory which had found its way into his mind?

He hadn’t thought of that day in _years_.

It had been one of the last days Belladonna managed to get from the bed, having grown too feeble afterwards.

It had been the last day he saw her smile.

When one of the Bag End’s inhabitants suddenly wasn’t there, it never meant the same to him again, but at least it brought a measure of comfort to his weakening mother.

It hurt too much to think of his father _after_ , such a loss leaves deep scar on the soul, but for her the memories were in part what kept her going.

For him _after_ meant that nothing ever stayed good for a long time.

It had never gotten better and that was the one thing life had taught Bilbo Baggins of Bag End.

Life never stays good for a long time.

You may get ups, you may even get a time of rest… but never, _never_ stop looking out for when it takes a turn for bad once again.

As far as Bilbo was concerned the river scare was the other shoe finally dropping and that dream was cementing that fact for him.

However that was not the case.

It was a mistake on his part – Bilbo would later, _much later_ say – that he had thought that what had happened the previous day had been the end of it, that their dose of misfortune would be used up for the time being.

Maybe it was.

 _Their_ dose, at least.

What the Hobbit _should have_ realised then, was that up until the rainy evening-turn-night _none_ of the misfortune the members of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield encountered had been aimed _specifically_ at him.

Maybe it was because he did not think of their clashes with misfortune like that until the moment it happened that Bilbo did not see the storm which was about to come and rage right into his face.

The entirety of the evening and night after the unfortunate episode by the river had been uncharacteristically quiet.

No being on Arda would describe Dwarves as a silent race.

The morning that for Bilbo started with a single sentence was about to turn out to be anything but.

The Dwarven “quietness” had a major part in it.

* * *

“You just stood there.”

It was that one sentence that started the avalanche.

_You just stood there._

Curious as to see what was happening, Bilbo had raised his head, only to see that the source of the voice was looking at him… Was standing _right in front_ of him, to the Hobbit’s great surprise. None could really blame said Hobbit that it took him a few moments before he realised that the words were, in fact, aimed _at_ him.

_You just stood there._

Those words echoed in the Hobbit’s mind resoundingly.

How could he have not heard the Dwarf, who now stood in front of him tensely, coming? Dwarves were _not_ known for their quiet nature… And they weren’t known for the silence of their steps either. Least of all the ones of the Company considered the youngest and Fíli, while being the oldest of the three, definitely belonged to that group.

“Wha-…?”

Why was he speaking to him in such an unexpectedly cold voice?

“You _just._ _Stood. There._ Kíli could have drowned. He could have been _dead_. And you would have just _stood by_ and done absolutely _nothing_!”

‘Ah.’

Bilbo suddenly realised how the event may have looked, when one concentrated on his role in the occurrence.

_You just stood there._

In all sincerity Bilbo hadn’t even been thinking about it much. He was just grateful for how it ended up. Losing some of their supplies was a meagre price when compared to Kíli’s life and that was what Bilbo closed that chapter with and the outlook of the occurrence he did not concern himself with much.

_You just stood there._

As it turned out, he should have.

Fíli was so overcome with worry, with the vision of how it all could have went oh so very _wrong_ that he projected it as anger and who better to take that dark, hateful feeling out on than the one who had done nothing to help the situation in his eyes?

“I had a very good rea-…” Bilbo started to say, however as soon as he did he knew that the wording had been chosen poorly.

_You just stood there._

“A _good **reason**?!_ ” Fíli’s voice had reached a whole new level of volume. And suddenly it was not just Fíli who stood in front of Bilbo, anger evident in the entirety of their posture, never mind the voices.

_You. Just. Stood. There!_

Thorin, Dwalin, Balin, Glóin… soon majority of the Dwarves looked at him with emotions ranging from outright fury to strong disapproval at the very least.

It was ironic how one of those who did _not_ join in was the one who was the centre of the attention, Kíli, who only looked confused about what was going on.

“No, I did not mean it like…”

“And _how_ did you mean it then?” Fíli cut Bilbo’s explanation off again, advancing closer to the Hobbit.

_You just stood there._

“I’m _dying_ to know the reason for that also, if I do say so myself.” Thorin added in, the hand on his sword making clear enough whose _dying_ would be the only involved if he had any say in it.

“I- I- I…” Bilbo started stuttering, the murderous looks the members of the Company were giving him being anything but encouraging, where offering explanations was concerned.

“You _what_?!” Fíli spat, his hand reaching for his sword also.

Maybe it was _that_ of all things that made Bilbo scream what the problem had been in the end.

“I cannot swim!”

The silence was deafening, the only sound disrupting it being Bilbo’s heavy inhales and exhales, the Hobbit too strung up for regular breathing at that point.

“You… _what_?!”

Bilbo did not repeat it. He knew full-well that the Dwarves had heard him the first time around.

It did not erase all of the anger in their postures.

_You just stood there._

He _did_ see where they were coming from. He truly _did_. Having a member of company who was not willing to help when another was in danger was nothing short of useless – oh didn’t Bilbo just _hate_ that word - and could in fact be dangerous to the others. A member that placed himself higher than the good of the group was not a valuable one.

Bilbo could understand all that.

However to see so much hostility against his person for a matter he was not allowed to explain even.

It hurt.

“If I had jumped after Kíli, and believe me I _would have_ done it if I could, you would just have had two people to drag out of the water.”

More silence ensued.

“I did the only thing I could. I _brought your attention_ to what was happening, because none of you had actually witnessed Kíli falling into water… I did what I could.”

_You just stood there._

“I did _everything_ I could.”

Bilbo did not even know who he was persuading of that fact anymore, for aside from Fíli’s accusation a new thought suddenly fought to take over his mind.

One which undermined everything he believed his character to be.

 ‘ _Did you really?’_

* * *

In the days following which followed that unfortunate encounter the dynamics of the group changed.

And if Bilbo was to be sincere, the days were quite _harsh_ on him.

He did not have anyone to talk to, not really, but that was not the main problem, he hadn’t been the heart of every conversation before either.

It was, among other things, how that lack of conversation came to be.

The Dwarves who did not partake in that confrontation did not know how to behave around him.

Those who did were much the same _and_ took to ignoring him, as if that would erase the problem the miscommunication – or the lack of it – caused.

Thorin was the leader of that group, Bilbo noticed, not surprised in the least. The king did not take much notice of him before either, since the river he just took to ignoring him on purpose as well.

The two groups of Dwarves weren’t exactly keen on talking to each other either, the only exception being Kíli, who could not bear to be parted from his brother’s side, something in the way they interacted with each other changing.

He did not speak to any of the others though.

Then there was the matter of Gandalf’s return, which only managed to serve a purpose of putting more salt into the open wound, due to the simple fact that Bilbo had to tell the Istar about the incident which caused such a rift between the Company.

The looks Gandalf gave the Dwarves told Bilbo that the wizard knew _exactly_ what had happened as an aftermath of that occurrence.

Bilbo did not need those sympathetic, just about _pitying_ , looks the man gave him, thank you very much.

He felt bad enough without them.

* * *

Why did they stop?

Were they meant to set the camp for the day already?

One couldn’t tell almost, what with the silent _not_ communication that was going on.

Bilbo sighed to himself, resigned.

Then he saw Gandalf storming around him, obviously having had an argument with Thorin, from what he could say.

The Hobbit could only hope that the wizard would come back soon.

That they would not stay in the same place for too long.

He did not have a good feeling about this abandoned farm.

Who knew what caused it to be empty?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know some of the reactions in this chapter might seem as overboard, but keep in mind that:  
> a) As of that moment the Dwarves only know Bilbo for a short time only and as such don’t really trust him. (It is not easy to earn a Dwarf’s trust and Bilbo has yet to earn it.)  
> b) There’s also the tension over the entire river debacle and with the emotions running high, even the bad thoughts increase on intensity.  
> We'll eventually get to happier parts of the story I promise. 
> 
>    
>  _ALSO after much consideration I have decided that the pairing of choice I shall keep is DWORI. (Sorry to the Nwalin fans, I swear I'll make a fic just for you in time, I even have a plot thought up already, but now I don't have time to.)_


End file.
